


Through the Thunder, Through the Rain

by oppressa



Category: The Rain (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Captivity, Casual Sex, First Time, Flashbacks, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jealousy, M/M, This bromance stole my heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-19 01:27:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14864049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oppressa/pseuds/oppressa
Summary: Patrick reminisces about the times it was uncomplicated while being held by the Strangers.





	Through the Thunder, Through the Rain

 

 

The way the Stranger handles Rasmus and how Rasmus lets himself be handled makes Patrick grimace with distaste. He's glad he's not being brought along, that he won't have to suffer the embarrassment of facing Martin, still shaky from being taken in literal minutes of having nobody to watch his back and forced into giving the answers they wanted soon after one horrific experience he didn't wish to be repeated. But it does leave the question of what the fuck they still need him for, as the other man fits the plastic cuffs around his wrists and pulls them tight, pushing his head back against the piece of disused machinery to hold him there until he swears. He gets they're not just going to let him go, but mostly he doesn't ask why not because it's been so long since he was on his own he has no idea where to go without Martin, anyway. It frightens him more than them all blindly following Simone to Apollon, than even getting caught in the rain, in some ways. His whole thought process is still back there with the group and although he's not part of it anymore, he can't help himself fretting about what Martin's plan is, having only heard snatches of their communication on the radio. _God just don't, they're all tooled up even minus one guy and you're the only one who knows how to fire that thing, aside from me._  
  


Once they've discussed something among themselves and left, dragging Rasmus, _how the fuck is that dumbass kid still alive_ , he stretches out his legs in the only movement he can really make and remembers the first time Martin allowed him to touch the rifle. It took months, to build up that level of trust. Now he can just grab hold of it and either Martin lets him or they scuffle – or he could, before Martin's hand landing on his face in a way that was so soft yet so scary. Before 'you tried to kill her' said in that ultra-quiet voice that's still reverberating in Patrick's head.  
  


He sniffs and eyes the left-behind syrette the Stranger used to shoot Rasmus up on morphine, something he could have done with directly after his involuntary tooth extraction but wasn't provided because Rasmus is important to them and Patrick is not, to anyone, never was until something clicked with Martin. He closes his eyes on the image of the syringe and tries to recall slightly more comforting echoes of earlier on – when they'd exchanged their names, Martin persuading him to abandon the car and just bring the cigarettes, groaning at various shit jokes he told to pull him out of bad places they came across, saying he was like a broken record telling him to shoot everyone they saw. He was frustrated at the time but now it makes him smile even though he knows everything is so fucked.  
  


There was the physical side of things between them as well, of course, which is more difficult to re-live. It began with the absent touches on his spine after a fight, taking the heat out of the situation whether Patrick was ready to let it go or not, or a gentle squeeze of his neck to ground him when the Strangers were nearby, a pat on his shoulder for no reason other than to just connect.  
  


That all lead up to the morning after they found one unbroken crate of beers in the basement of an old packing warehouse. He woke up to the sound of Martin kicking the empty bottles against the wall and found somehow that not only was he naked apart from his chains and unable remember how he got that way but also that he was so damn hard. He was still drunk enough he had only the vaguest sense of embarrassment as he'd yawned and scratched, until he felt Martin drop down right next to him, way too close and too fast for Patrick to snatch up the blanket though it would have been pointless as he must already have fricking _seen_.  
  


“Well, here we are at last. How are you feeling, sleepyhead?”  
  


He figured then it was cool, it happens, he wouldn't bring it up and relaxed.  
  


“Would you piss off, Martin?”

  
He'd laughed. “Depends. Are you going to get up or at least do something about that?”

  
He thought, _Ah fucking hell_ , mumbled something like “In my own sweet fuckin' time.”

  
“Oh, I see, you like that delayed gratification thing?”

  
“What? No. Maybe. I guess. I don't know.”

  
“How can you not know something like that about yourself by now?”

  
Looking back at it that question was probably what took him out of being relatively comfortable in the awkwardness of the situation to _How the hell are we talking about this shit_ , but he didn't want Martin knowing that so he settled for telling him to piss off again.

  
“Patrick. It's okay. That looks almost painful.” _Yeah, thanks_. “I won't say anything.”

  
Hah, right. The fact there was no one to say it to at that point didn't make one bit of difference. He'd shaken his head, at least ninety seven percent certain he was being messed with even as he registered Martin's fingers on the bare skin of his stomach, drifting down.

  
“For fuck's sake, Patrick, wake up.”

  
It took another full second to take in that Martin had hold of him and then he swore and scrambled like a frightened rabbit. Martin leant against him with no small amount of strength, murmuring “ _Easy does it”_ against his mouth, like an asshole, so Patrick almost reflexively lowered his head and bit into his shoulder. It only made the bastard laugh again.

  
“Christ, you really _are_ a kinky freak.”

  
“ _You're_ a fucking freak, man. Is this what you did all day in the military, huh, army boy? That's why you were no use when the rain came, cause you were too busy with touching each other's junk-”

  
“ _Patrick_. Just. Shut. Up.”

  
It seemed like he had touched a nerve, that Martin was actually _angry_ and still pulling at him, still jacking him so fast he couldn't argue, couldn't in fact say anything else, he was panting too hard, moaning, lost in it and the overarching realisation nothing had ever done it for him, pre-rain, quite like Martin taking charge of his fucking hard-on. Which remains something he's scarcely admitted to himself since, the closest moments being when he still finds some shameful release through it even years later.

  
He'd been pushing against Martin to start and finished slumped against his chest, the sweat pouring off him, and the come on his stomach and Martin's palm, he didn't even think, wrapped up too much in someone else's hand on his dick. He'd just needed it, like when Lea occasionally succeeds with working him into opening up and he feels like such an idiot for keeping all that grossness in as much as for letting it out, yet in some way better.  
  
  
Except Patrick _went_ to him the next time, when he needed it again. And he thought maybe he had the element of surprise when he pushed his cock into Martin's thigh by the fire one night but it was like Martin had been waiting, and said without inflection,

  
“You've got my attention.”

  
So Patrick thought _Fine_ and undid his pants, nuzzled him, licked, ignoring the hunger for whatever it was they were heating and the fact he barely knew what he was doing. Martin grasped his hair and directed him in the most basic sense, by tugging him this way and that, lying back with his eyes shut tight, giving no vocal signs he was getting it right. He only made a sound when the warm salt-taste flooded Patrick's mouth and the hold on his hair relaxed into a stroke.

  
About five minutes later, after sharing the last of their carefully rationed out cigarettes, Martin had asked if he was a virgin in his ass.

  
“Bitch, what do you think?”

  
Martin eyed him up and down like that had been a genuine question. “Yeah, I think you are.”

  
He remembers his belt coming undone and Martin's hands positioning his hips and a long time spent spitting and adding fingers, while Patrick bit his lip against the pain with his legs spread trying not to tremble, before Martin decided yes, he could fuck him mindless on the dry leaves.

  
He wasn't confused about what it all added up to. Nobody has a lot of options when it comes to getting off any more. He figures it was essentially the same thing Martin had with Beatrice, plus more arguments that unfortunately couldn't be solved by a good punch in the face from either one of them. It's different with Simone, with private conversations and information not shared with the rest of them, looks between them like they _understand each other_. Meanwhile in the real world, Patrick can carry on doing what's expected of him, to bring up the rear, making sure everybody else is safe, but if that included waiting for Martin to throw him a bone, then fuck it. Okay, he boiled over, storming past into the last bunker, getting intoxicated on admittedly disgusting aquavit. Rationality is not his strongest point, but it was his job to tell Martin like it was. Turned out he didn't value that, that everything they went through before she showed up meant next to nothing. Here they are, apparently not even friends.

  
He gingerly tongues the raw hole in his gums, tastes the sharp tang of blood again and it brings him back to his present situation. In the quiet, a barely perceptible sound of water trickling from somewhere causes him to flinch, drawing in a ragged breath. It may be just the old drains, but then again, could be if it opens up out there it's gonna leak in on him, and he can't break the zipties, which are strong like all their stuff, military-grade, his scrabbling nails just slip off. He's got nothing. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. He feels a distinct prickling in his eyes, bows his head to try and wipe them on his jacket.

  
In the back of his mind he'd always kind of wondered – like surely more or less everyone else that's still alive – how he was going to go, when it was going to be, what stupid shit was going to hit the fan. Perhaps this is it, and it's his own stupid fault for letting the situation get to him, when he should have just left it, let Martin stick his dick wherever he wanted and kept moving. But also for not telling him what had happened with Simone – jeez, still too wince-inducing, with her being nice for some reason and him unable to resist it in that state – not owning up to what he'd done until it was too late. Maybe he could have explained it was an accident, but by that time, Martin didn't give him a chance. Yeah, maybe he didn't deserve one. Maybe this is what he deserves, if deserving even comes into it, but if this place is a rain trap, it's not how he wants it to be.

  
He thinks of the way Beatrice had seemed almost peaceful in Rasmus's arms, not all contorted like the bodies he'd first seen on the beach, before he panicked and ran. Hopefully his mind snaps, before the thrashing and the foaming at the mouth starts, he won't even know what's going on...he won't feel any of this, the strain in his arms or the ache in his jaw. The gnawing sensations of guilt and fear will be gone.

  
He might be even half way to having accepted it when the floor creaks and he hears the familiar sound of metal-on-metal, someone entering with a gun. It'll be the stranger returning to tell him everyone's dead, _thanks for your help, here have a bullet in the brain,_ which at least would be more merciful than anything he's been imagining for the last half hour-

  
“Hey.” Martin says.

  
He does his best to sit up straight. “Hey.”

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title by Seven Lions


End file.
